That Must Be So Confusing for a Little Girl
by indiegrabtherope
Summary: In which little Marceline takes a step forward, but is pushed two steps back. Just an AT piece I didn't really know what to do with. I haven't really been following AT for a while, but I have seen the most recent episode with Marceline and Ice King, so please forgive me if there are any plot errors. Some elements can be considered headcanon-ish. Rating may go up.
1. I Remember You

Simon loved Marceline. He loved her in the way he would have loved his own child if he and Betty had never split. He loved her knees, which were so knobby and clumsy, and how her arms would claw at the air weakly for him while she slept even though he told her they couldn't be close. In the end, his resolve always cracked and he would pull her to him, his chin on her head. A soft sigh would escape her lips and in that moment, he would feel warm. Oh, and she loved the color red, especially any shade that was close to Hambo's. Sometimes, when they were in a wooded area, he would forage for red berries just so he could see her rare wide grin. Of course, he would make sure they were all edible; the crown would deter him from picking them if they weren't. That was the thing with the crown-it didn't want him to die, but it didn't give him much of a reason to live, either. Marceline was all the incentive he needed. He was feeling its presence constantly now. Before, it was more of an itch in the back of his mind, but now he was feeling numb and at times it felt like he wasn't even the same person. There were instances in which he contemplated the idea of wrapping his hands around Marceline's little neck and squeezing just to see her own eyes deaden and grow cold. He wanted to feel the warmth seeping out of her. He wanted to-no. The crown wanted that.

***

He had only asked her about her father once, to which she replied by wiping her eyes with her arm, "He ate my fries." That was it. It wasn't like he had the right to pry. She was just so young, so innocent. And yet the world had been ripped from her within a matter of days. Even with all that, she was lucky. Simon's world had been tugged away from him inch by inch for years, and he had felt every millimeter. He wanted to so desperately stay with her, and nurture and care for her like her father would have. There were times in which he indulged himself in these fantasies and he would grow old and frail like any other human being and she would be so strong and lithe, but then he would feel the cold.

-

A suit. She remembered the scent of crushed pine leaves and rust. She remembered the taste of slimy French fries that had been dusted slightly by ruined cement. The fried potato strips were on a sheet of parchment paper in one of those plastic baskets. There was a diner, lots of linoleum and broken lights, and a desperate sort of laughter that permeated the hazy air. Every now and then, there was a scream that pierced the atmosphere. "Hey Marceline," her dad said, "Look at that." She did, even though he hadn't pointed, and when she turned around she found him chuckling with all of her fries in his mouth. For some reason she couldn't fathom then, his chuckle then turned into a sort of belly-aching guffaw. Tears streamed from his eyes as he slammed the table with his fist again and again and again. Scared, angry, and confused, she started crying, too. He started inhaling the air in big gulps and finally swallowed the food. "Look at that," he smiled as he gestured to the pieces of broken glass, the charred structures that looked more like cavity-stricken teeth than buildings, the motionless bodies scattered everywhere. "Hey Marceline, look at that."  
She sniffed, but didn't say anything.

***  
The next day, he picked a new dress for her to wear in a department store that was leaning against a skyscraper. It was then she was inclined to ask why he didn't pick up new clothes for himself. He brushed the dust-there was always dust-off his shoulders. "Nah, there's nothing here I can wear. Besides, I've got to look dignified when the right occasion comes."

When they exited the store, these three men emerged from the shadows of one of the buildings holding pieces of asphalt and re-bar in their hands. Their voices slurred and they all had these dreamy expressions on their faces. "C'mon and play with us, busy man," they taunted. "Busy busy busy man." It was then that her dad had screamed for her to run. Never in her life had she heard such fear in his voice, so she did even though he didn't tell her where. She kept running, weaving around chunks of large rubble and crisp figures. When she looked back, all she saw was a crumpled heat of crimson. That was the one shade of red she didn't like.

***

When he thought she wasn't there, Simon would pull out a folded photo of a woman in scrubs. He would stare at it for hours before looking for Marceline who had been told prior to collect some firewood or to pack up for a move. She understood to some extent what that woman meant to him. It was like her dad with her mom. You didn't have to think too hard on these things.

***

In all the time they spent together, he had only hurt her twice. The first time was when she poked the gold crown that was slung at his waist. He had turned and tackled her to the ground, growling at her with blood-shot eyes which were glowing with this bright hue of blue. "It's mine, you little pest. Mine. You can't have it. I will slit your throat if you touch it again." They reminded her of the ice that had frosted her windows shut months before. She had burned herself when she put her palm against the glass. She whimpered, tears already coalescing in her lashes. His eyes cleared, and he sat back, lips quivering as he said, "I'm so sorry, Marceline. I'm so sorry." He buried his face in his palms. "Why, why did this happen to me?" he sobbed. Hesitant, she wrapped her arms around his bony shoulders and rested her cheek in the hollow of his neck. That was one of the last days they spent together.

-

He spent the next day carefully writing on the back of Polaroid of Marceline he took weeks before. It had been the last sheet in the camera. He couldn't be with her anymore, not when he had easily succumbed to the crown's malice the day before. He had to keep her safe. That was why he was sending her away. They were walking through the woods when he started explaining. "I packed everything you would need for your trip into your backpack. There's a pack of red lollipops in there, a little flashlight with extra batteries in case you get scared, and a red blanket just in case you get col-" "Are we going somewhere?" He looked down at her confused face and he felt his eyes crinkle. He crouched down in front of her and rubbed her arms. He pretended she didn't flinch at the frigidity of his touch. He pretended her teeth weren't chattering at that moment. "I-I need you to be strong for me, Marceline. I need to have some time alone. I promise I'll come back for you, wherever you are."

The desire for all the warmth to drain out of her eyes was fulfilled in that moment. Her eyes were devoid of any life. In a voice thick with sadness, she asked, "When do I leave?" He couldn't bear to look her in the eyes. "Tomorrow. At first light." The note bit into his palm.

-

That was the second time he had hurt her. When she packed everything for her departure and went to him to say goodbye, she found him sitting on the same log he sat to look at the picture of the woman. He held it between his fingers and stared at it intently. A sob erupted from his chest and sent shudders through his bony frame. He began ripping the creased photo piece by piece until his fingers became red and raw.

***

He had told her to leave, but not where to. They didn't hug-he hadn't even taken a step closer to her. She simply followed the trail deeper into the forest silently. She'd noticed something balled in his fists right before she'd left. She almost considered asking him about it, but thought against it. She didn't want to see him cry again. When she looked back, she saw him waving, but couldn't keep her eyes off of the spiky silhouette of a crown perched on top of his head.

~  
''Marceline, I can feel myself slipping away. I can't remember what it made me say, but I remember that I saw you frown. I swear it wasn't me, it was the crown. "


	2. A Chat in the Nightosphere

"No, you don't understand. She _needs _me_." _The battered man in his frayed brown suit clenched his fists at his sides. For the first time in what seemed like months, he was sweating.

"She _needs you?" _Hunson Abadeer, curled up on his makeshift throne of strange skulls and other horrors stared at the pale blue man with wide, unblinking yellow eyes. "Mr. Petrikov, you sent her off when she most needed you! So, why are you here?"

"For her. It's not safe here for her to develop. A child needs to learn. She needs to flourish with people who love her," the man begged.

"Love her, you say." Hunson scratched his chin as if in thought. "Yes, well, I can't think of any other place that's more suitable for her than the Nightosphere." He gestured to the large expanse of the cave-like setting in which echoes of bloodcurdling screams and manic laughter reverberated across the walls. He grinned. "Do you like it? I named it that myself."

Simon scowled, frost gathering at the ripped ends of his suit. "STOP PLAYING WITH ME! I WANT THE GIRL!" He bellowed. Ice gathered at his fingers and white clouds spilled from his lips. Hunson regarded him with an air of nonchalance. "I could suck your soul right now," he said, "But I don't want to find out the effects of the powers of the crown and my amulet clashing when she's in the next room."

Simon deflated. "She's in the next room? Well, why didn't you tell me that?"

Hunson sipped from a glass filled with a thick, dark red liquid before simply saying, "You never asked."

"Well, then…can I see her?"

"Nope."

Infuriated, Simon blasted a few ice shards in the air. "Well, WHY NOT?"

"Mr. Petrikov, you must be tired. I mean, traveling from dimension to dimension must be so harrowing to your being. Come on, take a seat and stop treating me like I'm…_evil._" He chuckled after he said the last word. Simon frowned, but sat on a flattened stalagmite.

"I couldn't help abandoning her," Hunson started. "It was for her safety. I mean, I thought I was going to die when that gang of boys came for me but luckily," he brushed his tie with his knuckles," my little amulet saved me. Now they're in my pouch. You owe me some things, Mr. Petrikov. In the time you were with her, I didn't have my daughter for four years. Tell me: when she was with you, was she changing?"

"Her skin was already blue and her teeth were already sharp. Anything else?"

"What did she eat?"

"The color red. Listen," he started, but stopped when Abadeer raised his hand.

"Did you give her that stuffed toy?"

Simon paused, taken aback by the sudden question. "Y-yes, I did."

Hunson smiled wearily. "If you must know, she loves that horrid thing. I've tried giving her riches and offered her powers you can't even imagine and she won't let go of it for one minute."

Simon looked like he could cry.

"But enough of that," he continued, "I've been thinking. With your crown and my amulet, we could form a partnership. You got this far. Now, what do you say about ruling everything with me? You'd be able to see her on a daily basis, of course, and you two would be able to interact anywhere you please."

"Now, wait just a darn second-"

Hunson leaned towards him. "Mr. Petrikov, it's painfully evident to see that you're the one who needs her. Like me, you are a man with power and in this case, a choice. It's ideal; it's perfect, so why aren't you taking it right now?"

"There's got to be a twist to this."

He relaxed into his chair. "No twist. Just power and my daughter."

"Well," Simon wrung his hands nervously. "What if something goes wrong and the crown sets off again?"

"In my domain, it won't and if something like that was to happen and you were to pose a threat to my daughter, _well, _we'll talk about that at another time. Now, about our partnership...," he winked. "It'll just be like old times. What do you say, Simon?"

Simon gulped. "It's just been so long, you know? Will she still remember me?"

Hunson smiled and clasped his hands together. "I'm sure she will."

Just then, a stone door ground against the floor and a small voice inquired, "Dad?"


	3. Fever

**A/N:** I'm not sure if I could do that episode justice. Oh gosh, I'm still crying. Here you go, guys. I tried. I'm really rusty, but I tried. I hope you like it. ;u;

* * *

"You're burning up," he says, lifting his hand from her forehead.  
"Ngh," she whimpers before rolling over to her side. "I-I feel fine."  
He takes off his pack and unzips it. "Now, don't be telling me that, Marceline," he says. "You know I don't like it when you lie." His voice is stern, but it cracks.  
"I can keep going," she insists.  
He holds a lone foil pack of expired painkillers in front of his eyes. "We'll make camp here."

It was as if a god had taken the world in its hands and bit into it like an apple to reveal the worms festering there. It took four months for the smoke to clear and in the end, all that was left were the bodies—or rather, what was left of them. The cities were cleared, disease struck, desperate hands slapped at racks of food, and screams were silenced. The quarantines made sure of that. Something was _there,_ but no one had said anything. Whole cities died off in their bubbles, and no one really knew why. But something had come out of the debris, with the amount of atoms split from the bomb's explosion, something had to have been _created_, but Simon had never thought much of it. Once the war was well on its way and Betty and Gunter had left, he had exiled himself from all of that. That had been eight years ago, and he still had the scars to prove it.

In the end, all they could become was scavengers. It was their only option, actually. Simon was no hunter and no matter how many times Marceline would aim her little makeshift slingshot at the things moving in the grass, Simon would take her hands and say something about hurting things and how it was wrong.

He had to say things like that, he supposed. It seemed appropriate. He definitely wasn't used to the whole father thing.

"You know," he would say, ruffling her hair, "Gunter's probably around your age right about now."  
She would laugh. "When can I meet him?"  
He would poke her stomach, grinning. "We'll schedule something out. Are you free for Tuesday?"

It wasn't all that bad, scavenging. Harrowing, yes, but it was an optimistic job. It was parting rubble to find sprouts and pilfering through piles of empty cans to find one dented one just a few days before its expiration date. There were socks to be found in houses encased in plastic and blankets to be discovered in former fallout shelters. It was a necessity, but it did not come without its own dangers. He was no exception. There were predators out there—wolves, foxes, anything that had been once been held in the zoos before the collapse, and there were humans—what _had been _human. Marceline had told him of men who were red and had red all over them and spat out red and hit the red out of others. They had red in terrible shades, red that stained the streets and soaked her father's coat, but that had been long ago and she had recovered considerably since then.

She puts her fist to her mouth and coughs, a hollow sound that sends him back to reality.  
He gives an empathetic cluck, worry furrowing his brow. "Oh gosh…," he clucks, "I've got to go to the city to get you some medicine."  
She grabs his arm. "Simon, no! There are those…things out there." She had meant the mucinous figures that roamed the city. They didn't know what they were and they definitely didn't want to know what they fed on.  
He puts a hand over hers. "I'll…I'll be fine. That pink stuff helped us get your soup, remember?"  
"I…" But she doesn't finish. She lets out a sigh and the fluttering of her eyes cease. He takes her small hand off and slips his under her back. He must do this alone, so he carries her until he finds an old car to put her in. He brushes the seats free of leaves and makes a nest of blankets for her. He does not try to think about how hot her skin is or the way her hair sticks to the back of her neck with sweat. He instead focuses on making her better, because she is all that matters.

But then he stops. Grits his teeth. He _can't. _He can't leave her alone. So by putting a length of the blanket over his shoulder and tightening it, he makes a sling. She gives a little huff, but her eyes do not open as he carefully eases her into it. He tries not to think about it. He tries not to think about it.

He shoulders his pack and looks at the ruins in the horizon. There were no more humans. There weren't any more people who could care. He didn't even have a knife. But he had a crown that possessed the power of the ice and cold and maybe that was enough. He clenches his fists…and walks.

***  
His shoes are slick with goo and he tries to not think about if these things were people. He thinks of the trips they had taken through places such as this and how she would trot ahead for a few feet before picking something up and slipping it into her jumper. Once, while he was washing her clothes in a stream, he had emptied her pockets and found that they were full of things such as cracked marbles and broken chains. There had been earrings, dusty buttons, and lockets that were rusted shut. She would turn them in her small hands, fascinated, and he wouldn't say anything. He understood. They were stories, sentences of ghost stories that had, at one point in time, some life to them. She kept the world in her pockets, even if it hadn't offered much in the first place.

It was stuff like this—cities with no people, streets strewn with broken glass, silence on once busy highways—that made Simon think about himself. Once, he studied the remnants of civilizations that had died off centuries before and now, now it was his life. Marceline learned about the world piece by piece like he had once, but now it was different. He was a testament to this apocalypse and being alone in this quiet, quiet ruin, the ever-present question of, "Why me?" pressed at his skull. _Why me? _  
It was cruel-to once have studied death and then doomed to live it. A part of the past, yet part of the future. It was a strange halfway point.

But he presses on. There was once a time where he would let such thoughts, such _loneliness _poison him. He'd carve it into the walls, his arms even, but the thing at his waist would spread its tentacles throughout his body, patch him up and insist that he live. No more. There was no time for that.

***  
Diuretics, stool softeners, and chewy vitamin tablets. That's what the store has. He puts a few bottles of vitamin e capsules into his pack because they're good for treating small wounds and grabs a hot water bottle while he's at it. Other than all that, there's basically nothing. There's a box of bandages, which looks promising, but the fact that it's ruined by water damage makes him not take it. _Mother—_tears threaten to roll down his cheeks and he looks at the clock on the wall which hasn't worked its hands for years. He takes a deep breath. This was the third store he had gone through. There were more, yes, but those were located within the inner parts of the city and that was where those…_things _were.

He held up the piece of re-bar as he made his way through the pharmacy. Cracks in the roof permitted rays of sunlight, but it was still dark regardless. It was deathly quiet aside from the gnashing of wet jaws and oozing orifices in the dark. There was a hollow sound, almost like a groan, that permeated the air. They were close, but not far enough so that he could dash in and peruse the racks. He held up a bottle of vitamins and threw it.  
A pause.

The gurgling sound stopped and the dragging of heavy feet started towards where the bottle had fallen. Carefully, he crept along the walls. He stuffed things like fever reducers and flu medicine into his pockets, but the problem was that he didn't actually know what was wrong with her. He put a hand under her neck. High fever. She had a dry cough, he remembered, so she wasn't congested—no, wait. She had sneezed, didn't she? He grabbed a few packs of lozenges and a box of tissues for that. Was it the dust? It wasn't that cold. Not yet. An allergy? No, a part of her would have been swollen, right? _Darnit. _What could it be? The nuclear snowflakes? He had told her to stop sticking her tongue at them, but that had been weeks ago and they themselves didn't seem to be affected by the radiation in any way. If that were the case, they'd either be dead or like those blobs. He closed his eyes. If he hadn't decided to study the dead when he was younger, maybe he could've had an inkling of how to save her.

…cough medicine. He takes that, too. Maybe all he could do was try. He packs all of the newly found supplies into an old shopping cart. It wasn't much and most of it was expired, but it was something.

Just then, Marceline let out a groan before curling up into great, hacking coughs. She wheezed, teeth on her knuckles, and spat something thick onto the ground. Simon froze, listening for the blobs. Sure enough, they seemed to be coming towards them.  
"Gunter...," he says under his breath. "It looks like we're in big trouble now."

For all it was worth, he runs, pushing his dingy cart down the streets and swerving to avoid the masses that exited from crevices in the buildings. A puddle of sludge almost made him slip, but he recovers quickly.

"Simon," Marceline wheezes. "I-I don't…feel so good."  
"Honey, you're gonna feel great," he huffs. "I found these gummy dinosaur vitamins you're gonna love."  
"What?"  
"Well, they're pretty new, but they've gotten great reviews." The horde was nearing. "They'll make you stronger," he reassures. "And once you are, we'll watch some movies together. I just heard of a couple great flicks that just came out last week."  
"Simon?"  
"Yes, sweetie?" The part in the barricades was in sight.  
"I…I don't think I'll be free for Tuesday."  
His eyes crinkle. "Don't you dare lie to me," he says. It's not a proper scold, but it makes her whimper.

Without Marceline, he wouldn't be human anymore. That much he knew. The crown whispered to him in his dreams, spouting promises of power, with sunlight glinting off shards of ice and cities that looked like cracked glass in the distance. Each night it poked and prodded, told him that he could be happy and alone, that he just needed to let it in, but then the sound of Marceline's laugh would break the trance and he'd feel the warmth seeping back into his bones.

***  
He didn't remember much after that. There had been screaming—a lot of it—and _laughter. _He shuddered to think about it. All he could say was that he woke up with her leaning against him sipping from a thermos full of tea made from boiled pine leaves and a melted honey cough drop. She didn't know that he was awake, but he had smiled then, relishing the thought that she was better and most importantly, alive.

* * *

_"Dad?" _The voice inquired.  
Hunson lifted his head towards the sound. "Yes, Marceline?" Simon held his breath.  
"Is…someone there? I heard talking."  
"Talking?" He laughed. "Oh, it's a guest, honey. We're just having a little chat."  
Doubtful, she asked, "With no screaming?"  
"Oh Marceline, you give me too much credit. Of course we're just talking! What do you take me for?"  
"Whatever. Just…no torturing, okay? I'm trying to practice my chords, here." The door slid shut.

Hunson then turned to Simon, who was absolutely petrified with shock. _It's been so long…_ An ache in his chest made him wince. It was as if a breath he had been holding was finally released. She was okay, and she was _here. _

The demon blinked. "That was a…touching story, Mr. Petrikov. If I had a heart, I'd clap you on the back."  
Simon gulped. "Can I see her?" He asked, desperate. "I want her to know I'm here, and that it wasn't my choice. That I...had no choice."  
"Now, now, Mr. Petrikov. You just got here! Why don't I give you a little tour of the Nightosphere?"  
He offered his hand. "That is, after all, what good hosts do…right?" He asked, his mouth a grin full of sharp teeth.


End file.
